


Wild Iaconi Nights

by FHC_Lynn



Series: Contracted [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Humorous Ending, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10843062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn
Summary: Skywarp usually found gutters to be a warm and friendly place. He had definitely met with all manner of interesting folk, though.





	Wild Iaconi Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Metalloprotease (Hazelnut79)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Metalloprotease+%28Hazelnut79%29).



> May Day prompt from Metalloprotease: _Skywarp meets a red-and-blue dock worker in Iacon?_

Dives were dives, it seemed, no matter the city one plunked the establishment down in. Dust built up too fast along tabletops and counters. Grime crept out from the corners and out from beneath the furniture. Upholstery gaped from old wounds, only sometimes patched. His present company had pawed Skywarp into a seat held together with the rigger’s tape the dive’s dock-based clientele used for concealment on battered crates and patches on broken frames.

Or was that supposed to be reversed?

A huge, merry fellow in a lighter shade of violet than his own plate, Octagon or Octotan or whatever had been shoving gutrust at him for an hour, and Skywarp had almost decided on letting the wandering hands get lucky for the night. Almost. Octagon was the only other flight frame in sight. Skywarp thought he might be a shuttle, from the shape, but the mech felt _greasy_ , and he’d been nattering about the size of his tank longer than he had been trying to get Skywarp tanked.

It wasn’t a promising start to his evening pass, really.

“Hey, Octagon.” Skywarp smacked at the hand pawing over his tucked pride. He wished he could have palated the local gutrust, even for a couple of drinks. Sadly, the fumes alone disgusted him. “Mind the hands! Those’re loaded weapons down -- _Yrch_!”

Octagon leaned forward, throwing himself half on top of Skywarp. That wandering hand got way too personal. So did other things. Skywarp had not known a mech’s tongue could taste of ethanol. He could have lived without learning that at all, really. Anyway, the rigged chair busted beneath their combined weight, and Skywarp found himself sprawled beneath Octagon’s bigger frame.

Right then.

Skywarp felt around for a stray bar in the gummy chair remains. He had _earned_ the military marks on his shoulders and damned if any drunken idiot was getting the best of him in a gutrust dive bar, halfway across Cybertron. He whipped his improvised weapon up and over Octagon’s wide wings with every intention to crush Octagon’s head case. Before he could bring it down on the drunk’s head however, a barstool came crashing down on Octagon’s head instead. Skywarp just had time to register red arms and blue hands before Octagon roared and lunged for Skywarp’s would-be rescuer.

Skywarp flipped himself over, tacky chair leg in hand. Octagon pummeled the slight worker class trapped flailing under him. Skywarp vented. Of course. Another idiot charging in without a plan. Skywarp brained Octagon with his chair leg. Only he actually knew where to hit, so he struck the mech where his low crest merged back into the structure of his head. Primary motor feed temporarily disrupted, he collapsed on the little grounder. With shouts and curses erupting all over the bar, Skywarp got his pedes under him, took two steps forward, and dragged Octagon off the little grounder. Then he dragged the damned idiot who had failed to rescue him toward the door. The mech got his act together quickly, stupidity and bloodied face aside, and got the door open for them to stumble through.

Outside, the worker class mech spat bright blue gobs to the changing pad under them, and, laughing, he pulled Skywarp toward the back. Figuring Octagon’s friends would pour out of the dive looking to make his insides his outsides, Skywarp stumbled after him.

He absolutely did not snicker back at the grounder.

In the service alley shadow, Skywarp caught the mech’s shoulders to stop him then caught his chin so he could look at the busted nasal ridge and cracked upper lip in the glare from his own biolights. After a pause in which they could hear the shouts pouring out of the bar’s front end, he pronounced, “You’ll live.”

“I live every day,” the mech laughed. Red and blue in solid blocky chunks across his frame, he looked like the poster model for Iacon’s poorer districts. He also had the thick, rolling accent of said poor. “You’re from Vos, right? Accent’s wild, mech. Sound like bells, you do. You seen Piston’s Edge? There’s a place you can see the Well! I can show you --”

Skywarp let the mech drag him along deeper into the alleyways, though he had gotten an up close view of the Well on his official duty that morning. While Skywarp didn’t care to be that far down, the mech’s excitement was infectious. Also his flattery rang a whole lot truer than Octagon’s, even if he _was_ stupid.

“-- so that was awesome in there! You get into a lot of fights, mech? I mean, those’re military markers, yeah? But wow! And not drinking that gritty liquid ash Octane tries to pass as liquor, smart choice, flymech! C’mon, it’s down this way, only a couple of alleys down, we can walk --”

Skywarp found himself grinning, too, and decided the evening was definitely looking up now.


End file.
